“Take blade, then, khaffshik!” called Khalam-Sharru.
He threw him his sword, which Plant Man caught with evident dexterity.
“I shall bear this axe down upon you and hew this corrupted tree!” Khalam-Sharru cried.
Screaming full-furiously, axe raised aloft, he assaulted the monk with all his might and main. Plant Man dodged and parried, then struck back with deft blows. Khalam-Sharru deflected these with the head of his axe and ducked the third blow. Again they attacked one another, and again, each time avoiding the swinging blades and remaining unscathed. A crowd of onlookers swarmed about them, fascinated and amused by the contest which, in its outcome, betokened the final fate of their once-ascendant realm.
“Do you toy with me, Plant Man, or is this the best you can do?” he taunted.
“The infidel shall hold his tongue or find it ripped from his mouth!”
“Not before my axe has shorn your roots and cut them from your trunk!”
Charging Plant Man, Khalam-Sharru ducked to miss his sword-swinging and, kneeling low, he swung with all his strength, slicing his enemy’s ankles, felling him with a single blow. Falling backwards, Plant Man lay like a recumbent beast brought low by huntsman’s deadly arrow. He stared at Khalam-Sharru with horror as the priest stepped onto his chest and raised his axe to give the death-blow.
“For Asharru!” he cried as he made ready to drop the axe upon his enemy’s neck.
As the axe-head swung down, Plant Man’s face changed from shock and horror to a grimace of deceit, while his arms swung together and grabbed hold, vice-like, onto the axe’s haft, pulling it from the priest’s grasp.
“As King Ishmael once said of his Biknog foes, ‘so always do the faithless fail’!” he quipped as the priest’s axe now swung round and suck deep into Khalam-Sharru’s thigh, slicing through muscle and vein, and unleashing torrents of blood upon the plaza stones.
Reattaching his feet like shoes, Plant Man rose to his feet, unnaturally, like a catapult, and sunk another axe-blow into the priest’s belly.
“Khaffshik bastard!” were the priest’s words as he spat blood and bile.
The pagan fell prostrate upon the ground, which was soaked in his blood.
“Ifunka!” he cried.
“Any last requests?”
“Keep Arwa safe…” he coughed.
“Very well. Say hello to Afflish the Accursed!”
One final swing of the axe and Khalam-Sharru’s head was severed from his body.
“Praise the Great Spirit!” Plant Man cried, his eyes like those of an enraged yeshka.
“Khan Vabakh yôsh min-ish (Praise the Great Spirit)!” echoed the crowd in Shaffi.
“March on, Shaffu; the day of reckoning is nigh-at-hand!” Plant Man proclaimed.
Throwing aside his weapons and suspending himself upon his vine-appendages, he glided back towards the slain priest’s house. How could he now face his wife?
Ushwan, Ffen and Shem sat within the parlour of the house while Arwa rested alone in her room, gathering her thoughts. Meyla served them tea—gveg-leaf tea with sheff-cinnamon. This was presented on a tray, along with white-powdered biscuits called shilabs in Tremni—ab being the name for ‘powdered sugar’ and shil meaning ‘biscuit’. These rather resembled marbles and they proved exceedingly difficult to dip in tea, without becoming lost at the bottom of the tea-cup, that is. This fate befell Shem, who lost his shilab, sinking as it did with a ‘plop’, while Ushwan munched gaily away, sipping his tea profusely. He had endured days and weeks of suffering and privations while imprisoned in the dungeon, so now he enjoyed whatever pleasures were offered to him. Ffen was preoccupied with his thoughts. Ever since his early days as a monk, he had been somewhat of an extremist in disposition and he recognized himself in Plant Man—his own passion and radical bent. Would he not make the same choices, the same decisions, if he were in Ifunka’s shoes? Would he not use force to eliminate the infidels and cleanse the world of the wretched Theocracy?
“I say, old boy!” Ushwan interrupted this train of thought. “How did you get here? Shem tells me you were forcibly married to three sisters and prevented from leaving Ffash Valley by its lord, what was his name? Is that right, old chum?”
“Lord Tem Ffash is his name. Yes, well, I told it to him straight: ‘I love your daughters, Reshga, Yimga and Mashga, and I swear upon my life that I will return, but I must save my friends from danger’. I could feel it in my bones. I knew you were all in trouble. I left two days after Ifunka and Shem and have been catching up ever since.”
“You didn’t bring that wretched meish then?”
“What, Shig?” he laughed. “No, he’s looking after the three ladies—God, they are beautiful!”
“Sowing your wild oats, my boy? Good on you, mate, good on you. I myself am no stranger to the ladies, though they thought me so. Foolish bastards! Oops, sorry for the language.”
“In any case, everything has changed now. There’s no going back to our old lives.”
“Ifunka’s gone mad. Whatever this Verdant Coin is, we’ve got to free him from it before he ruins himself and our whole world,” Shem interrupted them.
He looked sullen and depressed, his eyes weighed down by a great weariness born of life’s suffering combined with a heart-wrenching journey.
“Cheer up, old boy; I’m sure he’ll be fine soon.”
“And what of the blood—the streets running with blood? All is lost; there’s no going back from such violence!”
“Come now, Shem,” Ushwan consoled him. “There is always room for forgiveness. As long as we are breathing, and hearts beat within our chests, we can repent of misdeeds and turn to the Almighty Great Spirit for forgiveness. He is Merciful and Compassionate! Forgive Ifunka and pray that he repents and is forgiven by the Almighty Forgiver.”
“You know,” said Ffen. “I’m not sure he’s wrong.”
He had been debating whether to broach his ideas with Shem and Ushwan for the last few hours but now he decided that the time had come.
“What do you mean, brother?” asked Shem, worried.
“There really is no other way to prevent Asharru from rematerializing other than killing all of his worshippers.”
“Are you justifying Ifunka’s actions?”
“I’m saying that he has a valid reason. Do we not glorify Ishmael the Great, who slaughtered countless Biknogs?”
“I see your point, brother,” acknowledged Ushwan. “But Ifunka is not Ishmael. He’s a monk of non-noble stock with no authority given by man or God, nor any lawful right of descent.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Ffen continued. “His mother is from Clan Bishkwa of the Tribe of Avis, which descend from Votsku, our Great Seer. If he descends from Votsku on his mother’s side, what about his father? We don’t even know who he was.”
“Kandaspu, I believe,” said Ushwan.
“I mean—that’s what we’ve been told, but who was Kandaspu and where did he come from?”
“Are you suggesting that Ifunka Kaffa—the abandoned child—is a descendant of the royal house?” asked Shem.
“I’m saying that we do not know and cannot assume that he is not of noble stock when he might well be.”
“Assuming that to be true,” Ushwan continued. “Why should he be king of all Tremn? Is that not a heinous and self-serving pretension?”
“Would you call Kubba Gven—our first emperor—pretentious?”
“No, he was a great leader,” Ushwan replied. “But I fear that Ifunka is driven by a lust for power—something is burning within him: rage, vengeance, desire; it’s like he has forsaken everything we stand for in order to feed these base passions.”
“Well, I am open-minded on this issue,” Ffen persisted. “Will you not at least consider supporting him?”
“It sounds as if your mind is alread
y made up,” Ushwan observed. “As for me, I am still a monk, come what may.”
“We could be on the verge of a new epoch,” Ffen continued. “It’s all coming to shape in my mind. Can you imagine? Ifunka is now possessed of such power that he could conceivably deal a death-blow to the Holy Theocracy of Tremn and usher in a new kingdom. The conspiracy which has kept the Theocracy in place is crumbling as the Shaffu are now entirely under his spell.”
“Maybe,” said Shem. “But I can only go so far. I also want the corrupt theocracy to crumble—don’t get me wrong—but I want to do so on a morally-sound basis. Does Ifunka look alright to you, Ffen?”
“I admit he seems different,” said Ffen. “But let’s give him time. He must get used to his new powers.”
At that moment, there was a knock on the door. Whoever it was did not wait for an answer, but stormed in and began climbing the stairs.
“See who it is,” urged Ushwan.
“I will,” said Ffen as he rushed to find Plant Man reaching the landing.
“My friend,” Plant Man greeted him. “My hands are drenched in blood.”
He said this despite the fact that his hands were clean. He walked into the parlour and stood before them. Meyla bowed while the others stared in perplexity, still unused to seeing his plant-like exterior and vine-locks, his unnatural eyes and superhuman body. He was powerful, confident—yet his yes betrayed a certain sorrow and worry, as if he carried a terrible burden. He raised his hands, as if to show Ffen the blood that he imagined to be upon them.
“Where is my heart?” he asked enigmatically.
“Ifunka… what do you mean?” asked Ffen.
“My beloved Arwa.”
“She’s in her room.”
“I must go to her—there is something terrible I must tell her.”
“Are you sure that is wise?”
“Wise? Is it wise to slay your father-in-law?”
“No, I should think not, but, are you sure you wouldn’t rather sit down to have a cup of tea first? Tea soothes the soul, as they say.”
“No, if I delay the wound shall only grow deeper.”
He buried his face in his hands.
“Why was the old fool so stubborn? If he hadn’t betrayed us…”
“I’m sure you did what you had to,” Ffen assured him.
“Indeed, but women don’t think as coldly as men. They’re not as logical. They are driven more by emotion.”
“True, brother. Speak softly. I believe they like it when men speak softly.”
“I shall try.”
He slowly moved to Arwa’s room where, not long before, he had consummated his marriage and lost his virginity. There his wife awaited him, cloistered away as if she knew doom was coming. He knocked on the door. She opened it.
“My darling,” she said as she embraced him. “Is this how you shall stay?”
She referred to his new appearance.
“Your Tremni improves by the minute, my dear,” he replied. “I think I can remove it.”
She stood back as he focused all his energies on removing the coin. Gradually, the covering—the plant-like shell over his body—began to recede, until it coalesced into a cylindrical coin. Another cylinder, the strange device he had found in the Inner Sanctum, fell to the floor. He was stark naked, his clothes having somehow been consumed by the energy of the coin
“Darling!” she exclaimed.
He bent and picked up the cylinder, placing both that and the coin on a small wooden table at the edge of the room.
“What need is there for clothes between us?” he said with aplomb.
“There is no need!” she said with evident delight.
Though restored as the man she first knew, his body was enhanced—more muscular, more refined, as if his thin, monastic form had been refashioned—a statue chiselled finely out of a single block of green marble, if such marble exists.
“You are even more handsome,” she said.
“And you are ever fresh and beautiful, like a violet vinsh-flower, wet with crystal-pure dew, bathed in the morning light.”
“Come, then, precious husband—for I am wet with dew.”
He moved to embrace her again but stopped himself, hesitating. He bowed his head and held his palms upward, as if in prayer.
“Will my hands ever be clean?” he asked rhetorically.
“They are clean. If not, I shall wash them, for I serve you, this life and next.”
“You see with the eyes of the present. I see with the eyes of the past.”
“How can you see the past?”
“The present is only motion—like the movement of a river. The future is where the river has not yet coursed, but the past is etched in the lay of the land; it is written in the banks of the river. It cannot be changed or erased. The bodies cannot be remade; the blood cannot be gathered up. It is all spent—cast along the river banks like so much dust!”
He fell to his knees and held his face again within his palms. She knelt down and wrapped him in her arms.
“All the past will be forgotten,” she said. “Love washes away the dust.”
“Will you forgive me?”
“I fear what you are to say!” she replied, jerking backwards. “Do not say it is so!”
“It is so,” he replied. “Your father is dead.”
“Why…?” she fell back against the bed. “You knew I loved him.”
“I had no choice—he challenged me! What was I to do?”
She stared at him with wild eyes, unsure of what to do or say.
“And that coin—the Verdant Coin—it makes me someone else. I feel hungry—hungry for power and vengeance. The world is not enough! I want Tremn and I want more than Tremn!”
She was silent, neither crying nor displaying emotions of any sort. She merely regarded him with eyes which concealed a universe of pain.
“Say something!” he pleaded with her. “Or I swear I shall kill myself and end this madness once and for all!”
“No!” she stared, her senses recovered. “You are all that I have now!”
Her eyes welled with tears, her voice choked as she tried to continue speaking, and she began to sob.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “So, so sorry!”
“No,” she replied. “It was my father… he was wrong. He did not understand my love for you. He would not see that he was wrong. I have you now. I have the Great Spirit now. Nothing else matters.”
“Then you forgive me?”
“I forgive you always, because I love you like my own heart. We are like one tree with two branches. Our children shall be twigs, stems and offshoots of that tree.”
“Then I am healed by your love, Arwa,” he said, his own voice choked with emotion. “Your love washes the stain from my heart.”
He embraced her tightly and they kissed passionately. Overcome with emotion, frustration and passion, she bit his shoulder and he tugged at her hair with his strong hands. She pulled off her dress and they made love on the carpet as the night waxed on and cast its shadow over the ill-deeds and bloody acts of the day.
As a new day dawned, Meyla knocked on her mistress’s door and came in, only to find the two lovers wrapped in a blanket on the floor, locked within each other’s arms and legs like the tangled vines which spilled over the roofs and balconies of Khanshaff. She quickly backed out of the room.
Morning broke over the blood-soaked stones and gutters of the ancient city—the black pearl hidden within the deepest depths of the gargantuan forest of Ffushkar. Its inhabitants were either arrayed in the garb of watchmen or lay dead on its streets, save only for women, children, the elderly and the infirm, who watched stoically as the newly-minted soldiers of Plant Man’s army gathered up the bestrewn corpses of their compatriots and heaved them onto wooden carts pulled by biffbaffs to be bu
rned as infidels in a mass bonfire at the heart of the city. Boys, the youngest of the new recruits, gathered water in buckets and washed the pavement—almost a task in vain, as the blood seeped deeper into the cracks and crevices that formed the veins and arteries of its stone and cement surface. Merchants exempted from conscription began to set up their stalls—business does not shy away from war; nay, it flourishes as war proliferates. All seemed well; no voice of opposition arose, no rebellion against the solid authority of the new self-proclaimed king, because he had used the time-old, time-proven, method of silencing opposition—a complete purge of all disconsenting voices.
A clean sweep had been performed, cleansing the city of anyone who claimed loyalty to Asharru. His images were effaced, his psalm-books and liturgies shredded and burned. Everywhere, Tesh-Khan raised the cry of ‘Praise the Great Spirit!’ or ‘Khan Vabakh yôsh min-ish!’ in Shaffi. The revolution had taken on a life of its own, independent of its instigator and fashioner. Tesh-Khan, who had once been a simple and unimportant watchman had, for his linguistic ability and loyalty, become empowered and inspired with a new vision—the vision of one king to rule all of Tremn, Tremna and Shaffu alike, from the Sea of Matvakakan to the Sea of Sogyishifa, from the Pfetishe Kodffile Ditvagayeng (‘the Isles of the Twelve Seas’) to the Pfetishe Kodffile Gatvayeng (‘the Isles of the Twenty Seas’), from the Great Forest of Nor to the great and untamed desert of Yatvegab; one king, one God, and one mighty army to overturn the existing world order in a flash of violence and terrible retribution. Such a vision inspired him to carry the revolution to its logical conclusion: that loyalty must be absolute and all traces of past beliefs wiped out. It was he that commanded the army as Plant Man slept in Khalam-Sharru’s house. It was he that ordered images of Asharru to be eliminated and the bodies of the infidels burned. He went so far as to burn all small shrines, all priestly garments, every trace of the old religion, as the great temple, the Ffâna, smoked and collapsed under its own weight. The water which flowed over the streets cleansed the unclean blood of the disbelievers. The cries of loyalty to the king and of submission to the Great Spirit cleansed the hearts of those who had so recently been captive to a belief-system of deceit and impurity. The Shaffu, once distinguished and infamous for their rapacity and manipulation would now be renowned for their loyalty to the true religion and the true king of all Tremn. Such thoughts motivated Tesh-Khan as he held sway over the city in the absence of his somnolent lord.
The Rise of Plant Man, Lord of War, Conquest and Revenge: Green Monk of Tremn, Part II (Coins of Amon-Ra Book 2) Page 17